Rain and Fire
by Rosewood of Brazil
Summary: How many times can one person double cross another.
1. Chapter 1

**Serious writer's block. Well, when I say 'writer's block', what I really mean is 'procrastinating on a project I should have finished several millennia ago'.**

**Read, review and enjoy! Might turn this into a long fic. Set in an AU series 9, after the appearance of Beth and Dmitri.**

**Disclaimer: Spooks isn't mine; if it were, Lucas would still be alive.**

The bulbous raindrops that were typical of the London skyline fell swiftly and heavily, their impact on the ground combining to make a never-ending percussion that beat intensely onto the capital's streets. It was a gloomy reminder to those who happened to be unfortunate enough to be pacing the streets that morning that it was probably not destined to be the best of days.

In the heart of Trafalgar Square a tall but slight man stood sombrely by Nelson's Column, his floppy black hair plastered to his ashen face by the downpour. Across from his grey-eyed gaze, the Square's fountain thundered away as magnificent as ever, the contents blending chaotically with the ensuing rain.

A flash of lightning streaked across the sky, lighting London alight with its power for a split second – a small distraction from the endless torrents of rain. The man looked cautiously towards the sky, raindrops streaking down his chiselled jaw to his neck, dampening his open shirt collar. He closed his eyes contentedly for a moment as the chilling rain cooled his flaming skin; working with a fever was not the wisest decision he had ever made in his life. But his kind of work waits for no man to get over the flu.

His grey eyes lingered over the fountain, flitting across the Square from time to time as the foot traffic began to half-heartedly pick up as it approached lunch time in London. A few stockbroker types briskly hot-footed it across the soaking ground, golfing umbrellas and newspapers held aloft in an attempt to fend off the rain.

The man shrunk into his jacket slightly as the rain's intensity increased and then swiftly unbuttoned it, letting the water dot his dark brown shirt. A small smile crossed his lips.

_A little better._

He placed a hand to his brow, the cool of his skin temporarily subduing the heady fever he was running. His hand abruptly dropped to his hip, the steel of his gun sitting comfortably in the palm of his hand within an instant of catching sight of the woman.

She was tallish – perhaps five feet seven – and gave him a run for his money in the pale and drawn stakes; her waifish limbs elegantly dropped the rucksack she was carrying onto the edge of the fountain, causing her loose green shirt to fall off her shoulder slightly, completely exposing her thin black tank vest to the elements. The woman hastily tugged her shirt back over her pallid shoulder, not bothering to button it up – the rain was clearly not something that caused her bother.

The man hesitantly took a step forward.

"_Lucas, no," _a voice crackled in his ear.

"Tariq, she's right there," he hissed into his shirt collar.

"_Wait. We have to be sure that it's her," _a second voice chimed in.

"Harry, who else could it be? She fits the description."

"Fits_ the description or _is_ the description? We can't afford to make any mistakes here, as I'm sure you well know. Wait until she leaves. Approach if she leaves the bag, if not, follow from a safe distance."_

Lucas muttered an agreement and returned to his position by the column, eyeing the thin woman rifling through the rucksack. She quickly zipped the blue bag up and promptly walked away, blending into the crowd like just another city worker.

"She's left the bag behind," Lucas muttered softly into the receiver, carefully pacing towards the fountain.

"_Approach with caution. Do not under any circumstances touch the bag Lucas, do you hear me? Do not touch the bag," _Harry spoke urgently, a rare hint of worry in his voice.

Lucas warily inspected the rucksack, watching for any obvious signs of tampering or sabotage. "It seems good. No signs of damage."

_Good. Now walk away Lucas, we'll arrange for the bomb squad to dispose of it."_

"Do we even know if it's a bomb? It's not as if we were handed any black and white intel, the whole leak could have been faked," he questioned, distancing himself from the fountain.

"_If it can be avoided Lucas, under no circumstances will I allow British citizens to become victims of terrorist activity. Better a few hours of the bomb squad's services wasted than a Square full of bodies."_

"True," Lucas agreed. "Alright Harry, I'm coming back on the grid—"

Lucas' words were drowned out by the fireball that erupted from the fountain behind him, rubble and debris flying through the rainstorm. Lucas flailed blindly through the air as he was lifted clean off his feet by the blast. He crumpled like a broken doll as he landed heavily on the concrete pavement, his ears ringing and head throbbing. Somehow he managed to conjure a thought coherent enough to tell him to contact the Grid.

"Harry?" he coughed into his collar. "It looks as if that intel was right all along."


	2. Chapter 2

**. . . . . I'm so sorry for not updating for . . . ugh, who knows how long. The first chapter actually somewhat cured my writers block and there was a decidedly big shift in my priorities :S And for the life of me, I don't know why – I love Lucas North! He is the archetypal tragic spy. I sort of forgot that this story even existed on my memory stick, it was only when I read this fic I was really loving and it just tailed off and wasn't completed . . . . and I thought " . . .aw crap . . . I'm that person." -_- Sooo, the guilt of leaving a story alone for too long latched on with a vengeance, so - I'm back. And this time, not intending on going anywhere. I can't guarantee uber quick updates as I have a lot of studying that needs doing over the next few months, but I'll do my best. All I'll say is that I won't be compromising quality in the interests of quick updates :) So occasionally (I stress occasionally :P) it may be a little while.**

**Enjoy!**

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Chaos reigned in Trafalgar Square for the rest of the day; ambulances, police and fire crew littered the perimeter of the iconic London landmark. Police tape curbed off the mass of rubble and bodies near what used to be the fountain that served as a lunch spot, meeting place and all around photo-op for tourists.

Paramedics hastily ran amongst the rubble surrounding the fountain, initiating triage and carefully tending to the walking wounded and those in decidedly worse shape. Skulking in the background of the frenzy that hijacked the iconic square was a lone man, batting away a paramedic who was becoming increasingly annoying as the newly qualified young woman tried in vain to treat the cuts and bruises the ill-looking man had sustained in the bomb blast.

"Sir, if you could just come to the med-tent for a moment I can patch you up and move you on to the police so they can collect your statement –"

Lucas North gave the stout, spotty girl a glare that sent a shiver down her spine; he had no time to be 'patched up' as it were by someone who had barely had their training wheels taken off. He had seen her face as she had jumped out of one of the many ambulances, the full force of what the job entailed hitting her like a sledgehammer. For a moment he wondered if she was going to be sick.

The paramedic stumbled and quickly made her way towards the makeshift medical tent that was set up for those with less severe injuries and could afford to wait before going to a hospital. Lucas smiled wryly to himself – he was in no mood to be told what to do by an idiot post-grad who had no clue what she was supposed to be doing. He swiftly caught up to her and brushed past, leaving her rooted to the spot, considerably intimidated. Pushing through the throngs of the walking wounded that were pooling around the med-tend, Lucas sought out a quiet spot, pulling out the phone he pick-pocketed off the paramedic. He shivered uncomfortably in the drizzle as he waited for his call to be put through.

Bloody, bruised, scuffed and flu-ridden, Lucas looked like he was going to keel over. He tried to shake the fuzziness from his mind as he heard a voice on the other end of the line.

"Lucas." Harry's crisp voice answered.

"You're psychic Harry; I don't even have my phone on me."

"Keep in mind the fact that very few people know this number."

"What happens now, then? The bomb went off, the Square's destroyed. We knew there was going to be a drop. If anyone finds out we'll be lynched," Lucas leant against a stone wall as the world began to tilt slightly too much for comfort.

"Lucas, we need you back on the Grid. Don't worry over the consequences of the blast; some curious intelligence has just been passed to us. We'll debrief when you get back."

Harry sounded confident that he knew what was going on and Lucas didn't think it sounded like that whatever was behind the bombing was on an apocalyptic scale. Or maybe it was and Lucas' flu-induced haze was altering how he was processing information. Either way, Lucas trusted Harry's judgement implicitly, hazy-brained or not.

"I'll be there by –" Lucas glanced at his cracked watch. Bollocks – that was a birthday present from Harry and co. "11:15," giving Lucas twenty minutes to make his way back to Thames House.

"Oh, and don't worry about going to the hospital – we'll get you patched up here."

The phone clucked dead and Lucas palmed the small phone, casually throwing it into one of the empty ambulances after deleting the call history. He glanced at the young paramedic as she seemed to be debating whether or not to waylay him again. By the time she had decided against it, Lucas had already slip into a loitering taxi, instructing the bemused looking driver to drop him at Whitehall – he'd walk the rest of the short distance to Thames House. Lucas slumped back in his seat and closed his eyes, inhaling the off-smell of the taxi interior – cigarettes, E-numbers, something similar to popcorn . . . Lucas' stomach churned and he quickly pulled the window open, flushing the sickening smell from the car.

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Fifteen minutes after his phone call, Lucas swiped his card and emerged from a lift into a hidden world of which the public knew nothing about – The Grid.

"Lucas, good to have you back. You're early. And you look awful, by the way," Malcolm greeted, clapping him on the back.

"I'll have to take your word for it, I haven't seen my reflection for a while," Lucas smiled as he wandered over to where the rest of the team was sitting on the plush, leather sofas, watching the news on a wall-mounted plasma. Whoever said the government was making budget cuts?

"Morning all," Lucas sighed, flopping down into his favourite squashy sofa.

"Shit, Lucas. You look like . . ." Beth tailed off.

"Shit," Dmitri finished, handing Lucas a cup of tea.

"Thanks," Lucas grinned.

"Do you want a dash of tequila in that? You're going to need it soon," Dmitri joked, downing the remaining dregs of his own tea.

"I think I'll manage," Lucas brushed a few flecks of dust and grit off his jeans, the rips around his knees subtly framed by dried blood. "I've had worse."

"Not what I meant."

Lucas gave him a quizzical look from behind his mug as he threw back the hot PG tip.

Dmitri grinned as Lucas was about to ask what exactly would require a shot of tequila or two . . . but if Dmitri was involved, it was more likely to turn into half a dozen.

"What do—?"

"You'll see," Tariq chipped in from behind his computer terminal.

Lucas leant back into the sofa when a shadow blocked the small amount of light filtering through his eyelids. He looked up to see Harry's weathered, knowing face studying him.

"Well, then . . . I suppose we'd better get right to it. Before you get yourself patched up Lucas, there's something we need to fill you in on, so as much as I'd like to leave you to rest . . ." Harry tailed off, shifting his weight from foot to foot. Lucas frowned as he stood up, following him to the conference room; Harry didn't usually act like this . . . it was some odd combination of craftiness, excitement – and possibly nerves? Lucas ran his hand through his hair, spreading some of the dampness to the back of his neck – Lucas was rapidly starting to despise the flu; life was complicated enough to keep up with as it was _without_ the extra fuzziness that the team usually only got in such quantities from politicians.

"Take a seat Lucas," Harry gestured to one of the many vacant, leather-bound chairs surrounding the large desk that took up the majority of the room. The rest of the team filed in as well – apparently there was a group invitation to Harry's debrief.

"What exactly is going on?" Lucas directed at the man who had brought them in here.

Harry stepped cautiously towards the head of the table, thinking carefully about how he would summarise the situation to Lucas. Apparently the rest of the team already knew. "Our new intelligence. I received a phone call from the head of Six's International Terrorism department and Sawyers himself . . . and a face to face meeting concerning the Trafalgar bomb this morning. I expressed my disbelief at how no-one had actually been killed, making it one of the most unsuccessful terrorist attacks ever carried out – and I was duly informed that it was, in fact, _not_ a real terrorist attack."

Lucas remained expressionless; absorbing everything Harry was putting to him for fear that the flu would somehow erase it from his brain.

"The whole event was orchestrated by them. The time, location, the mechanics of the bomb, even coinciding it with a _bad forecast." _Harry glanced at Lucas' face and didn't even need to ask what the question brewing behind his eyes was.

"I'm afraid I don't know the ins and outs yet, the operative they sent here only arrived a quarter of an hour ago, and needless to say, it's a very in depth subject which can hardly be compressed into a few minutes of chat. So, once you've got yourself into something cleaner and you're not looking like you've been spending the weekend in Yemen we'll all be debriefed. Thoroughly. Bring a notepad."

"And snacks," Dmitri whispered to Beth.

"In the meantime . . . let me introduce you to the operative who shall be conducting the debrief," Harry glanced cautiously at Lucas. "May I please introduce Miss Felicity Foxx," Harry gestured to the open door.

"Flick will do just fine Harry," a gentle voice floated through the room.

Lucas' eyes widened as a disturbingly familiar waif-like body drifted into the conference room. The same black jeans, the same black tank top and the same green over shirt. The only difference was she was considerably drier this time around, her waist length blonde hair was now slightly static and no longer dark and plastered to her face.

An uncomfortable silence filled the room as all eyes shot between Flick and Lucas before Dmitri broke the silence.

"Want that tequila now?"


End file.
